


Wish You Were Here

by andromedasgalaxy



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:26:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25914331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromedasgalaxy/pseuds/andromedasgalaxy
Summary: Regrets are an all too common part of life, especially when it comes to love. But if the chance came to take it all back and simply be with the man who stole your heart, would you take it?Inspired by Wish You Were Here by Eddie Fisher.Cross posted on tumblr under thegildedquill.
Relationships: M. Hercule Flambeau/Reader
Kudos: 4





	Wish You Were Here

There were always days filled with regrets, days where your mind would fill with memories and missed chances, with a near constant stream of wistful dreams and alternative lives you could have lived. It wasn’t a new revelation, it wasn’t as if one decision had suddenly lead to such thoughts, but oh, it had added to them greatly. Too often you could find yourself sitting at home, a perfectly good book in your hands simply lacking that contentment you used to feel. It was as if the things that once brought you joy were now dull, lacking in the excitement you had found for that brief glimpse of time, that same excitement you had turned your back on nearly a year ago now.

You had been given a chance, a chance to run away from it all, to live a life of thrills, on the edge of your seat, but it was also a life constantly _on_ the run and that was just too much of a gamble. Life was fine, you had a small but comfortable home, a pleasant job, food on the table and good, if rather interfering, friends at your side. How could you give all that up for a life that had no turning back? A life that only knew excitement as it knew danger, in extremes.

There were days, days when you could ignore that wistful feeling, or the way your mind wandered off, pondering just what adventures you might have been on and where. Today, however, was not a day for reality. That restless feeling that had needled away at you for the better part of a year was digging away at you from the moment you woke up, reminding you just how small Kembleford was, and how large and magnificent the rest of the world must be.

But there was something else, something even more nagging than the thought of what the world held in its grasp. There was him. Sure, he was suave and charming when he had to be, and oh, how well he turned on those charms, but he was also fascinating and sharp witted, and ever since your first meeting there had been something there that you simply couldn’t shake. Yet, when he held out his hand, when he asked you to run away with him, to let him show you all the wonders of the world in a life filled with excitement and passion, you had hesitated. The world was incredible, and so was he, but it was also a big step up from the sleepy town you lived in; no matter how many mysteries it happened to throw your way.

The Father was the only one who knew of the offer the thief had made you, in fact he had half expected the offer to be made. But more than that, he was the only one who saw how you regretted your choice to stay. Helping Mrs McCarthy organise a bake sale was nothing in comparison to planning a heist with the man that had captured your heart, and as much as it pained him, even he knew that Kembleford was not the place for you forever.

Your arrival into your kitchen was late, but you couldn’t care for appropriate breakfast times when your mind was so filled with daydreams. Images of where you might be now, had you taken his hand, often took over your thoughts, as it did when you walked past your front door. It wasn’t until you heard the slightest crunch under your slipper that you finally found yourself in reality, albeit begrudgingly. Bending down to see the small stack of mail at your door you couldn’t help but cringe at your clumsiness, hoping there was nothing crucial amongst it.

A bill, some advertising and, oh! A postcard! A beaming smile broke out on your smile without a hint of reservation as you looked down at the brightly coloured slip of cardboard, happily discarding the rest of the mail on back on the floor as you made your way into the living room. The room had once been warm and comfortable, and technically it hadn’t lost any of its appeal, but the colour of the curtains or the way the rug perfectly matched the armchairs didn’t matter to you as much as the small collection of cards you had on display on the mantle.

Paris. Munich. St Petersburg. Venice. So many more places all shown on brightly lit postcards.

So many months, and still they came with never more than your name and address to find you. The image was a small hint to show you where he was, to let you into a glimpse of his adventures without giving himself away. And, more importantly, a reminder that even after all this time, he still cared in his own way. It never ceased to bring a smile to your face, or a slight jolt to your heart.

It had been so easy to doubt he would stay interested if you left with him, so easy to believe he would tire of you like a new conquest rather than someone he truly cared about, but with each postcard you were reminded that even without contact, you were on his mind.

The cards held a prominent position on the display, and had often brought about questions, ones that never received truthful answers, and often an odd look you couldn’t place from Father Brown. But they meant too much to you to simply box them away and hide them, they were everything you could have had, everything you longed for, with the man you dreamt of even still.

You were ready to read that careful handwriting, practically painting your name and address on the back of the card, the only piece of him you ever got. But something else caught your eye. There was more writing, not much, but anything was more than you were used to. In a careful script, the ink seeped into the card were four simple words:

> _Wish you were here x_

There it was again, that feeling of your heart skipping a beat. Your finger couldn’t help but run over the writing, as if you could absorb it, engraving his words and writing into your mind with a sappy smile.

Perhaps you could do it, perhaps you could pack the essentials and simply run off to be with him, to travel the world, to simply _be_ with him.

Running the card over for any clue as to where he was now, you found yourself stunned at the sight before you. How had you not noticed the image before? It was so generic yet so familiar, surely your subconscious ought to have jumped at the site that graced the front of the card.

In all its beauty and grace sat a sight that had you nearly dropping the card in surprise. St Mary’s Catholic Church stared back at you with all the familiarity of an old friend. He was here, he was in Kembleford.


End file.
